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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28203567">Fray</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeddyKrueger/pseuds/TeddyKrueger'>TeddyKrueger</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Haikyuu!!</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Melancholy, Past KenHina, Past Kurotsuki, Red String of Fate</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 23:48:15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,499</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28203567</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeddyKrueger/pseuds/TeddyKrueger</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Now they’re adults and their hearts are worn, the scar tissue hardened for each of them to see. Kenma’s red string remains ragged and short, while Kuroo’s—from what he’s said—looks as if someone has neatly clipped it with freshly sharpened scissors, even making a point to add fabric glue to seal the frayed ends. For their mid-twenties, they feel as if the world has thrown shards of glass in their direction, embedding them in their skin. It’s as if it has said, “Have fun picking them all out.”</p>
<p>They’re still picking them out, but they’re picking them out together.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Kozume Kenma/Kuroo Tetsurou</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Kuroken Christmas Exchange 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Fray</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/ittybittykozume/gifts">ittybittykozume</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hey guys! This is a fic I wrote for the Kuroken Christmas Exchange 2020 for <a href="https://twitter.com/ittybittykozume">@ittybittykozume</a>! I chose something more on the melancholy side, but I hope you still like it. Thank you also to <a href="https://twitter.com/kodzukuro">Christy</a>, <a href="https://twitter.com/kurokenns">Jane</a>, and <a href="https://twitter.com/bakchimin">Tae</a> for reading through it and making sure it makes sense. You guys are amazing &lt;3</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>As Kenma enters the wrought iron gates, he spots a pair of children dancing on the grass together, hands gripping each other so the centrifugal force of their spinning doesn’t knock them off balance. Their mother smiles and beckons them over to the picnic basket she’d likely prepared earlier in the day. In addition to the plates for herself and her children, she sets out a fourth plate and fills it with food, just the way she might have at a dinner table and not at a gravesite.</p>
<p>Kenma passes those who clean the gravestones of long-gone loved ones with a solemn silence befitting the setting, but families just as lively as the previous trio have their place as well. There’s only one large congregation, everyone in it adorning formal attire in shades of blacks and greys. Women cling to their spouse’s or siblings’ arms, using handkerchiefs to wipe away tears before they can leave dark tracks of mascara in their wake. </p>
<p>And yet, the sun shines and the flowers sway, their petals holding fast despite the wind.</p>
<p>Now, after reaching his own destination, Kenma reflects on his own predicament. Yesterday’s Kenma vowed to avoid this place as long as he was allowed to have life in his body. Today’s Kenma wrestles with his reservations, but accepts defeat, collecting every behavior he’s seen and heard of, and replicating only what he can.</p>
<p>He dons black, but no crowd of mourners stands at his back. He’s silent as he crouches to the ground and places a small bundle of sunflowers on both sides of the gravestone, a dash of color against the weathering granite. He inserts incense into the burner and lights it, prolonging the silence with a sandalwood-scented prayer.</p>
<p>But nothing comes.</p>
<p>There’s no begging for someone lost to return. There are no wishes for peace in a place he won’t reach for who knows how many years. There aren’t even any tears.</p>
<p>He sighs and pulls his knees into his chest, resting his chin upon them.</p>
<p>“It’s been five years, hasn’t it?”</p>
<p>They’re alone in this row of gravestones and even the most vibrant memories of him can’t bring life where there isn’t any.</p>
<p><i>What do I even say?</i> he asks himself. <i>What am I supposed to say?</i></p>
<p>When Kenma was a teenager, sometimes his mom couldn’t solve his problems. When his best friend, Kuroo, wasn’t around, she was the one on consolation duty. Rather than letting Kenma vent (he wouldn’t) or proposing solutions (she didn’t have any), she told stories. Some of them he’d heard, some of them were new, but they all had importance and, somehow, they’d all held the answers to his worries and irritations.</p>
<p>Moms are good like that.</p>
<p>“You remember Kuro, yeah?” he starts, pausing for an answer that never comes. “Of course you do. I used to tell you all those stupid stories and you would pretend they were interesting. Although,” the corner of his mouth twitches, “I guess you were being genuine.”</p>
<p><i>His</i> laugh, which used to ring out in a crowd, doesn’t resound.</p>
<p><i>Where to begin?</i> he asks himself.</p>
<p>“Oh. Well, you did always like origin stories.”</p>
<p>He gathers a memory and grasps at every detail he can manage.</p>
<p>“Let’s start with ours.”</p>
<p><br/>
</p><hr/>
<p><br/>
</p>
<p>The real beginning doesn’t lie in their childhood or their adolescence. It doesn’t start on the first day of school or even on the first day they met. Instead, after 17 years of friendship, their story begins with a couch.</p>
<p>It’s dark blue and stiff, the cushion’s edges frayed from years of use even before Kuroo picked it up from the secondhand shop. The right arm is punctured in several spots from when Kuroo stabbed his pen through the thin barrier during particularly overwhelming finals weeks. The springs squeak, weakest in the center where Kenma tends to sit while he plays video games in the twilight hours. It still smells like the coffee Kenma spilled on it months ago, and Kuroo <i>insists</i> there’s a stain on the back suspiciously shaped like Buddha.</p>
<p>Today, however, tears leave their marks, one-by-one darkening the fabric. They will fade over time, but for now Kenma glares at them, willing them back into Kuroo’s eyes along with the pain surging from his heart.</p>
<p>“He...he d-didn’t <i>want</i> me,” Kuroo sobs. “He wanted anyone <i>but</i> me. He chose someone else and–”</p>
<p>The words become incoherent. Kenma strokes his hair, his volume never raising above a murmur. “It’s not your fault, Kuro. It’s not.”</p>
<p>“How is it not m-my fault? I’m his <i>soulmate</i>, not just some guy he decided to date for the sake of d-dating.” He rolls over and buries his face into the thick fabric of Kenma’s hoodie. “This is so fucked up. He—he just—and he <i>told</i> me he didn’t feel that way about him and I just–”</p>
<p>“You believed him because you trusted him,” Kenma finishes. “You’re <i>supposed</i> to trust the people you love.”</p>
<p>Kuroo pushes his face further into Kenma’s chest and mumbles something.</p>
<p>Kenma gives a breathy laugh. “I can’t hear you, weirdo.”</p>
<p>Kuroo turns over, narrowing his puffy red eyes at Kenma. “Are you even allowed to call me a weirdo right now considering I’m losing my shit over Kei?”</p>
<p>“I can call you whatever I want.” Kenma pokes his nose. “Now what were you saying?”</p>
<p>“I <i>said</i>,” Kuroo swats at Kenma’s hand, “Do you think the universe just fucked up and gave me the wrong soulmate?”</p>
<p>What used to constrict his heart only conjures a dull ache. Kenma’s relationship with the universe is like watching a foreign world leader speak on the television, his hair slicked back and his suit pressed to perfection. As he goes on and on about the state of a war too complicated to explain with one word—but everyone does anyway—the firebombs rain outside of Kenma’s window, reminding him the universe doesn’t “fuck up”. When it takes, it takes with intention.</p>
<p>He refuses to believe otherwise.</p>
<p>“Do you remember how, when your parents split up, you told me how your mom got a new soulmate, but your dad was left without one?”</p>
<p>Kuroo sniffles. “Yeah?”</p>
<p>“But...she <i>didn’t</i> get a new soulmate, just a new partner. Your dad met Nanami again for the first time since high school and they bonded.” He recalls the first day he’d had dinner with the new Kuroo family, the fifth chair no longer missing a person, but instead supporting a woman with a sharp wit and an even sharper grin. “Technically you could say the universe made that happen.”</p>
<p>Kuroo scoffs, but there’s a hint of a smile playing about his lips, urging him to accept what Kenma has to say as truth. “Yeah, but what was the point of getting my parents together and then breaking them up after years of being together?”</p>
<p>On any other day, Kenma would cringe at his next reply. He would consider washing his mouth out with soap or begging Kuroo to forget he’d said anything at all. Instead, he smiles softly down at his best friend.</p>
<p>“They had to make you.”</p>
<p>Kuroo snorts, but he wraps his arms around Kenma’s waist and squeezes. “You’re stupid.”</p>
<p>“<i>You’re</i> stupid.”</p>
<p>“We’re <i>both</i> stupid.”</p>
<p>“Yeah.” Kenma’s eyes catch the ragged end of the red string tied to his pinky. “We are.”</p>
<p>They spend years on that couch—two, to be exact—in various forms of distress. Some nights, Kuroo lays there listlessly, saying nothing all while Kenma’s avatar dodge rolls away from roaring monsters on his PSP. There’s no point in words. They both know what the other will say, so Kenma calms Kuroo through presence alone.</p>
<p>Some nights, however, they do talk. The worst nights are when Kenma is the one who needs to speak, wail even. He curls into himself while Kuroo holds him tight, cooing, “It’s not your fault. There was nothing you could have done. <i>It’s not your fault.</i>”</p>
<p>On those nights, they hold each other while night herons flit about outside their living room window, Kuroo only ever leaving for the two minutes it takes to grab a comforter from the closet so they don’t catch a cold. Kenma presses his forehead against Kuroo’s chest, and Kuroo trails his fingers up and down his back until Kenma’s light snoring fills the minimal space between them.</p>
<p>Somewhere amidst the third year, the little personal space they’d maintained for their entire friendship disappears. Even in the daytime, Kuroo’s arms find their way around Kenma’s waist, chin resting atop his head as Kenma laser-focuses on the bacon he’s trying not to burn. And when Kuroo rests his arm on the back of the couch, Kenma pulls it down just enough to give Kuroo permission to pull him close, their heat warming each other’s sides.</p>
<p>Kuroo also begins carrying Kenma to his bed on the tougher days, claiming his back is killing him from too many nights on a couch made for people at least 40 centimeters shorter than him. At some point, it starts happening even when they’re both having an undeniably normal day. They sleep curled up into each other, as if they were always meant to do so.</p>
<p>Sometimes Kuroo’s hands dip too low and rest just a tad past Kenma’s lower back. Sometimes Kenma plays with the fingers of Kuroo’s hand, only for him to interlace them before falling asleep. Sometimes they press so close together that their foreheads touch and the only way they could be closer is by reducing the gap between their lips.</p>
<p>“Kenma?”</p>
<p>Kenma traces a finger along Kuroo’s chest. “Yeah?”</p>
<p>“I think I’m in love with you.”</p>
<p>Kenma hums. “Yeah, me too.”</p>
<p>Kuroo scoffs and catches his hand. Kenma’s breath flutters when Kuroo nuzzles his nose with his own. “Why does it sound like I just told you we need a new couch and not like I just confessed my love for you?”</p>
<p>Kenma smiles. “Because it’s true.”</p>
<p>And it is. Some sort of love has always existed between the two of them, even longer than the couch has.</p>
<p>It started in their childhood, new and mysterious. Kuroo wasn’t one to talk and neither was Kenma, so they made discoveries through actions and not words.</p>
<p>It continued into their adolescence, acts of service sprinkled in between the jokes, admonishments, and reassurances.</p>
<p>Now they’re adults and their hearts are worn, the scar tissue hardened for each of them to see. Kenma’s red string remains ragged and short, while Kuroo’s—from what he’s said—looks as if someone has neatly clipped it with freshly sharpened scissors, even making a point to add fabric glue to seal the frayed ends. For their mid-twenties, they feel as if the world has thrown shards of glass in their direction, embedding them in their skin. It’s as if it has said, “Have fun picking them all out.”</p>
<p>They’re still picking them out, but they’re picking them out together.</p>
<p>Kuroo leans in and presses his lips to Kenma’s, prompting Kenma to wrap his arms around him to deepen the kiss. It’s languid and lacks any real heat, but Kenma’s never been one for temperature extremes to begin with. Warmth is what he craves, and warmth is what Kuroo gives.</p>
<p>“I love you, Kuro,” Kenma whispers when they finally part.</p>
<p>“Me too,” Kuroo whispers back.</p>
<p><br/>
</p><hr/>
<p><br/>
</p>
<p>“He told me to come today, actually,” Kenma admits after finishing his story. “Said he’d be pissed if I missed five birthdays in a row, so, here I am.” He runs his fingers along the grooves in the stone monument. “Funny how different June and November are. June isn’t too hot because it’s still spring for a little while. You always liked summer uniforms, too. Said it was easier to jump around in them.</p>
<p>“But November’s nice, too. I don’t get weird looks for wearing long sleeves or jackets because it’s finally cold. You can appreciate the warmth a little more because it’s not a given. He’s not–”</p>
<p>Kenma spots movement from the end of the row and peeks over at a figure standing awkwardly, frozen in place. Kenma laughs quietly and beckons him over.</p>
<p>“He’s acting like this is the first time you guys have met,” he says to the stone.</p>
<p>Kuroo rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “Guess you caught me?”</p>
<p>Kenma rolls his eyes. “How could I <i>not</i> catch you when you’re skulking around near Sato-san?”</p>
<p>Kuroo whips his head around. “Wait, how could you read—oh wait. Most common surname. Got it. Nice one.”</p>
<p>“Just say something, will you?”</p>
<p>“Alright, alright!”</p>
<p>Kuroo crouches down and closes his eyes to pray, but instead of leaving his thoughts to Kenma’s imagination, he speaks.</p>
<p>“Hey, Chibi-chan. Been a while, huh? Been wanting to come by, but I didn’t think it was right to come without Kenma here. I’m glad he finally did it.” He bumps Kenma’s shoulder lightly.</p>
<p>“Not without a ton of nagging,” Kenma mutters.</p>
<p>“Oi.”</p>
<p>Kenma gestures for him to go on.</p>
<p>“Alright. Where was I…? Oh yeah.” He shuts his eyes again. “I know you know I would never hurt Kenma, but you probably thought Tsukishima couldn’t hurt me either and...well, it turned out the way it did. But I love Kenma, and I want to be there for him through everything the way I always have been and the way you always were. I promise I’ll protect him.”</p>
<p>There’s no sign of understanding. The flowers keep swaying and the world keeps moving. The smoke coming off the incense stick doesn’t flicker and the sun doesn’t come out from behind the clouds, because there are no clouds to begin with.</p>
<p>But maybe it’s okay to be ordinary. Maybe Kenma could place his faith in what’s in front of him rather than hanging onto a past which is nothing more than ashes. More like air, impossible to touch. It was beautiful and bright and magical, but sometimes people aren’t meant for perfection.</p>
<p>Kuroo stands and holds out a hand. Kenma accepts it, wobbling a bit when he’s on his feet from sitting on the ground for so long. “You good?”</p>
<p>“Yeah.” Kenma nods. “I think I am. Thanks.”</p>
<p>“No problems.” Kuroo waves at the gravestone. “We’ll be back next year. Happy birthday, Hinata-senshu.”</p>
<p>“Yeah. Happy birthday, Shouyou.”</p>
<p>The sun in June beams down like it does every year, warming the grass and the earth as well as the people on it. Kenma and Kuroo discuss what to make for dinner while the congregation from earlier dissipates, disappearing into their cars to go back to their lives, but with one piece missing. </p>
<p>Kuroo begins to swing their arms dramatically, Kenma trying to kick his leg to make him stop, their boyish laughter joining that of the children from earlier. On the upswing, the silver rings on their pinky fingers glint in the sunshine. A crimson gemstone is embedded in the metal: not as a replacement for the strings underneath, but as a new promise, one they intend to keep.</p><p>
  <br/>
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</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I swear I don't know how to write anything without hurt/comfort or angsty elements.</p>
<p>Twitter: <a href="https://twitter.com/TeddyKrueger__">@TeddyKrueger__</a><br/>CuriousCat: <a href="https://curiouscat.me/TeddyKrueger__">@TeddyKrueger__</a></p></blockquote></div></div>
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